


Tabula Rasa

by MaadSkittlez29



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (no surprise there), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Amnesiac Gadreel, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cas is kind of a jerk but he means well i swear, Dean is skeptical but gets over it, Episode Tag: 9x01, Episode Tag: 9x09, Gadreel Joins Team Free Will, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Men of Letters Bunker, Mentions of Lucifer being a dick, Metatron Being a Dick, POV Ezekiel | Gadreel, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Present Tense, Sam has a friend, Season 9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 16:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4145151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaadSkittlez29/pseuds/MaadSkittlez29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall, Gadreel is left with no memory of who he is or his life prior to waking up on Earth. All he has is a name that isn't his and an undeniable need to find the person it belongs to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tabula Rasa

**Author's Note:**

> Written for fallingforgadreel's SundayGadreel challenge on Tumblr (which I completed a day late :P)  
> Challenge Prompt: "I didn't mean to break it."

He awakes with a name and nothing more.

Perhaps "nothing" is an overstatement; his mind isn't a complete blank. He knows the date and where he is, down to the second and geographic coordinates. He has a vague, general knowledge of this world's history, from the moment of its creation to the present, though the specifics elude him. He knows that this form is not his own, that its clouded memories are not his to access, and so he respectfully leaves them be. 

But of his own life -- his history, his purpose, his very identity -- he has virtually nothing, a gaping hole in his consciousness. There's only the foggiest inkling of before, of a place he'd known for a long time and a dread that clung to it. It was small and cold and dark and he was alone and everything  _hurt_ \-- He learns very quickly that his fractured memory isn't the best place to look for answers.

The name is the only piece of information he really has to work with, the only thing in his mind that feels like it could possible mean something to him. It isn't a name he recognizes as his, nor does it seem familiar any way. But he knows it's significant, that whoever it belongs to is vital, not just to him but to the universe itself. There's a sense of urgency attached to that name, a need to find its owner and a fear that he might already be too late.

The idea that someone he's never met could pull him so strongly is somewhat frightening, but it’s also something of a relief. It gives him a purpose, a place to start from and a direction to follow. If nothing else, he knows he must find this person, whoever they may be, and help them, whatever that may entail. 

This is his task, his mission, and though he doesn’t understand why, every fiber of his being screams that he must not fail.

***

He isn’t certain how he knows where to go. Nothing is familiar to him, and this world feels strange and surreal, so different from anything he’s ever seen. Getting lost should be a primary concern, but truthfully it never crosses his mind. Subconsciously, he seems to know exactly where he’s meant to be, and with no other guide he simply lets instinct drive him forward. As bizarre and wonderful as this place and its inhabitants are, any exploration will have to wait; he has far greater matters to attend to right now.

The structure he finds himself in (“hospital”, his mind supplies, though the context his mostly lost to him) is clear and bright and pale, almost unpleasantly so. It is a place of life and death alike, and its inconsistency disturbs him. He decides not to dwell on the matter too long; he is close now, his pace increasing until his feet are pounding against the pristine floor, doors and hallways and people flying past unnoticed. He slows to a halt mere inches from his destination, his legs refusing to let him go any further as he hovers at the doorway. The room is like many others he passed along the way, quiet and still, sparsely furnished and barely occupied. A man sits hunched over in the sole chair, too lost in his own thoughts and troubles to notice a new arrival. He only has a brief second to acknowledge him before his attention is pulled farther into the room. On the bed lies another man, another stranger he’s certain he’s never encountered before. But as soon as he sees him, he knows.

_“Sam.”_

That name, that single, powerful syllable that has already brought him so far, is what breaks the man in the chair’s trance. From the corner of his eye, he sees the other man stand up, senses the air of sorrow and distress that envelopes him shift suddenly to caution and suspicion. He sees a glint of silver, a blade that drives a splinter of terror into his core for reasons he doesn’t understand. It’s this sudden fear for his life that forces him to look away from his goal and toward the figure thundering toward him. “Who the hell are you? What do you want from us?"

He finds his voice the moment his back hits the wall, cornered and outmatched and so, so close to where he needs to be. “I’m here to help!” The words are blurted out in a rush that he himself barely understands, but miraculously they’re enough to still the man’s blade. His eyes are still filled with mistrust, but he withdraws enough that there’s no longer a threat of attack. He breathes heavily, slowly drawing away from the wall. “I know he’s been hurt. His body is failing him, it won’t be able to sustain him for much longer.” He can sense the damage to Sam’s form, burning inside of him as if it were his own borrowed flesh that had been injured. “I can heal him, save his life. Please, I know you’ve no reason to trust me, but if we don’t act soon there’ll be nothing left to save.”

The man hesitates for a long while, pinning him in place with his gaze. The suspicion does not waver, but it is overpowered by desperation and flickers of hope. “If I even think for a second you’re lying to me…” The threat is well understood as the man steps away, opening a path to the bed. He feels a rush of relief as he approaches Sam’s side, his heart pounding with the knowledge that his task is so close to completion. He allows himself a moment to admire him -- his strength and courage and goodness that shines through even in a time as dire as this -- before gently pressing a hand to the ailing man's forehead, willing his blood to cool and his body to mend. He hadn’t expected the sudden weakness as his strength is taken from him, redirected to one who needs it far more. It gets to the point where he’s forced to brace himself against the bed just to remain standing. His head swims, his bones ache, but he knows beyond a doubt his mission is worth this and so much more.  
  
He sees a flash of hazel as the man’s eyes open, and he smiles. “Hello, Sam.”

***

“So just to recap: You don’t have a name, you can’t remember squat before two days ago, and yet somehow you managed to track us down and patch up my brother because you just… _knew_  you had to. Am I getting this right?”

He sits in the back of the noisy black vehicle they’d escaped to after Sam had woken, pressed into the door as he stares out the window. He doesn’t like how small it is, nor the fact that he can’t get out while it’s moving at this speed, but at least he can look out and know that there’s a world beyond this, a world he’ll be able to rejoin eventually. “That seems like an accurate assessment,” he agrees, accepting the summary of his experience thus far. Dean, as Sam called him, makes a noise in his throat that sounds decidedly unimpressed, drawing his gaze from the trees outside to the back of the driver’s seat. “You are skeptical…”

“Just a little, yeah!” The tone appears jovial, but carries malice as well, and he almost flinches at the way it cuts.

“Dean-“ Sam’s voice is an immediate comfort, calm and gentle where his brother’s is sharp and unforgiving. It’s cut off far too quickly as Dean interrupts. 

“Not sure what rock you’ve been under the past several years, buddy,” he continues in the same falsely-pleasant manner, “but random strangers generally don’t want to help us. Especially not angels.” He perks at that last word. “Angel”… aside from “Sam”, it’s the first word that’s really held any meaning for him since he'd woken up. Is that what he is? If so, it sounds as though his company has encountered others of his kind. Perhaps if he met one, maybe they could tell him who-- The thought screeches to a halt as panic boils in his stomach, scrambling his mind for a moment before retreating to parts unknown. Hmm…perhaps not then. Before he can dwell on it, Dean’s voice pulls him back. “So, anything you want to add to that?”

His brow furrows as he tilts his head in confusion. “I’ve already told you everything I know-“

“Bullshit!”

 _“Dean!”_  

Sam interjects, and it’s as though a natural disaster has been averted, or at least postponed for a later date. He feels his fear slowly unwinding as Dean calms himself, if only slightly. “Sam, we have no idea who this guy is—“

“And neither does he.” Seconds pass, and finally Dean heaves a sigh, conceding to his brother’s unspoken request. “It’s not like he’s the first amnesiac angel we’ve run into, or the first good one. Look, whoever he is, wherever he came from, he saved my life. That has to count for something.”

Dean doesn’t answer for several moments, but he seems to soften at the reminder than his brother’s life had hung from a thread not so long ago. “I know, okay, I know, but…Sammy, stuff like this always comes with a hell of a catch. We’ve got no idea what this guy wants from us.”

“My only wish is to help.” The brothers glance back in slight surprise, as if they’d forgotten the object of their debate was present. “Sam’s life may have been spared, but his body is still damaged. I’d like to aid him in any way possible, and I’m more than willing to extend that same help to you, Dean.” It’s true, his ingrained purpose only regards Sam’s safety and wellbeing, but it’s clear that Dean’s trust is required before he can see to that. If gaining it means taking on more responsibility than originally intended, so be it.

Dean stares at him for a short while, searching for something in his face that evidently isn't found. There’s a groan of annoyance as he turns his gaze back to the road. “Alright, fine. But just so we can make sure Jason Bourne here doesn’t go one some kind of rampage.” He can’t make any guess as to what that name refers to, but it doesn’t really matter; the overlying message is clear. He can stay with them, with Sam, for the time being, and that’s all he needs to know. He smiles as he turns his gaze back to the darkening sky, tracing the stars as they appear one by one and wondering absently why they feel so close.

***

As soon as they settle into the bunker - unpacking belongings, introducing him to the prophet Kevin, securing the King of Hell somewhere in the depths of the compound - Sam pulls him aside with the intention of uncovering who he is, a mystery he’d almost forgotten about. He reads down the extensive list of names compiled from countless sources, all supposedly belonging to angels like himself. Sam’s taken the liberty of crossing off several options - Anael, Balthazar, Castiel, Gabriel, Lucifer (that one strikes a cord, but the anguish that it inspires is more than enough to drive him away from it), to name a few. The omissions do little to thin the count, so they simply start from the beginning and work their way through the list alphabetically.

They’re almost a hundred names in before he finds one that seems even remotely familiar. “Ezekiel.” He knows it isn’t his, and he tells Sam as much, but it belonged to someone he knew of at one point, someone brave and loyal and honorable. It isn’t his name, but it is a good name, and as far as the Winchesters are concerned it’s as good a name as any until he can remember his own. 

It’s nice to have an identity, he thinks, even if it isn’t technically his.

***

It surprises him how quickly and easily things start falling into place afterwards. As promised, the newly-named Ezekiel fulfills his task of helping Sam heal, offering his power - his Grace - to aid the process. Sam is strong and resilient, even after the trauma his body and soul have experienced, and his progress is encouraging. He often stays close to his charge, partly for Sam’s benefit and partly in response to some inexplicable fear of being left alone. Fortunately, the younger hunter doesn’t seem irritated by the intrusion, and in fact uses the opportunity to fill in the gaps in Ezekiel’s understanding, not only of Earth but of Heaven and Hell as well. The angel absorbs every piece of information offered to him, quickly mastering use of the internet and blowing through books and articles at an ambitious rate. The two spend many a day in the library together, pointing out passages to one another and discussing everything from great mysteries of the universe to personal preferences in music and literature. Sam never shows any signs that he tires of his presence; if anything, he seems to enjoy the company.

Branching out to the other member of the ragtag group is more of a challenge. Kevin is nice enough, though often distracted and prone to driving himself to exhaustion. More than once he finds the prophet asleep atop whatever text he’s trying to decipher and carefully rearranges him into a more comfortable position on the nearby couch. In return, Kevin proves an agreeable companion and invaluable source of advice, especially regarding human interactions and societal norms. 

Dean is more difficult to approach, making his lingering distrust of the angel well known. Time passes, however, and ever so slowly he starts warming up to Ezekiel, treating him civilly if not kindly. Saving the once-angel Castiel after an unfortunate encounter with a vengeful reaper seems to be the turning point in their relationship, solidifying the shaky trust between them and making way for an actual friendship to start forming. That very night, he invites “Zeke” to join him and the others in watching a film, determined to “have one angel who understands movie references, God dammit.”

Castiel is another person he’s initially hesitant to meet, recalling his implicit fear at the prospect of meeting others of his kind. Ultimately, however, their introduction is a success. Due to his hand in their family’s banishment from Heaven, however unintentional, Castiel is just as apprehensive of other angels. If anything, he seems relieved to find one who doesn’t hold him at fault, even of that may only be due to lack of memory. He even shares stories and memories of their home and siblings, though none seem to trigger any of Ezekiel’s own recollections. He starts to wonder just how deeply into his psyche this amnesia extends.

Once Sam’s health has been fully restored, he and Ezekiel venture outside more and more often. It’s a relief to escape the limits of the Bunker, though in truth the structure is feeling less suffocating and more familiar with each passing day. Every morning they go for a run, often ending with a race back home, and on clear nights they’ll lie out on the grass above the entrance and stare up at the stars, either talking about trivial matters or simply enjoying companionable silence. It’s moments like this that Ezekiel can’t imagine feeling closer to anyone else, nor anymore content with the state of his existence.

It isn’t always perfect, of course. There are memories that linger just beyond his grasp, dark, creeping things that claw at the back of his consciousness. They seem to tempt him, coaxing him to dig deeper and pull them back to the surface, but Ezekiel does his best to ignore them. He knows not all of the memories are good, that some lead back to that dark, cold, painful place that he hopes to never see again. He doesn’t need that, doesn’t need any of it. He still wonders what his life was like before, but there’s no burning desire to actually know for certain. He has a new life now, as Ezekiel, as a member of this strange, eclectic, wonderful family he’s been adopted into. Maybe he’s incomplete, but what does that matter as long as he’s happy? There are pieces missing, but he can enjoy the picture just as well without them. He doesn’t need to know what happened then; he has  _now_ and that’s far more important.

It seems almost fitting that he should be forced to remember after deciding he doesn’t want to anymore.

***

“Well, I’m really looking forward to this.”

The source of the voice seems harmless enough, a short, scruffy looking man with a nonchalant demeanor. Ezekiel knows better; he sees beyond the vessel to what it carries, the multi-faceted, ever-shifting form that no human could entirely comprehend. He wants to run, but his feet stay rooted. He want to call for help, but his tongue is locked. All he can do is stare. 

When he’d heard that this hunt involved angels, he’d been hesitant, old fear skittering up his spine. Sam had understood, of course, assured him that he didn’t have to go, than they could handle this one without him, but Ezekiel had insisted on coming along. Should worst come to worst, he knew they would need at least one angel on their side - besides which, he couldn’t bare to let Sam go without him, no matter how capable a hunter the man is. He never should have gone off on his own. He should have stayed inside with Sam, Dean, and Castiel, should have tolerated the noise and the crowds because the discomfort those caused was nothing compared to the fear he feels now. “What do you want?” He doesn’t take his eye off the other angel as he palms the blade Dean had entrusted him with. 

“Oh, now I’m hurt,” he drawls, pressing a hand to his chest in feigned offense. “You really don’t recognize me? I know it’s been a while, but I remember you. The least you could do is meet me halfway.”

Ezekiel’s throat suddenly feels dry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snaps, raising his angel blade defensively. It’s true; he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to know. Whoever this is, he can take his knowledge of the past elsewhere.

The angel rolls his eyes. “Don’t play naive, it really doesn’t suit you.” He pauses for a moment, reconsidering. “Well, actually, I guess it does. After all, that’s what earned you thousands of years in Heaven’s darkest dungeon, isn’t it?” 

_Cold. So cold here, so dark, Abner, who’s Abner, where—_

He staggers, barely keeping a grip on his blade as his free hand clutches his head, a vain attempt to fight back the invasive thoughts. “Wh-Wha…?”

“It broke His heart, you know?” the angel - Metatron, his name is Metatron, why does he know that? - continues, stepping closer. "You were God’s most trusted. That’s why He chose you to protect the Garden.”

_Vibrant green leaves, radiant colorful flowers, crystal clear waters, beautiful, perfection, Eden_

“Stop it.”

He doesn’t.

“Your one task was to keep evil from entering, from befouling His cherished creation, mankind, and you  _failed_  Him.”

_Morningstar, Light Bringer, he said he would make things better, he promised, he promised, why did he lie?_

“Please, I don’t— No more,  _please_.”

“The serpent entered. The Earth is cursed with evil. Someone had to be blamed.”

_Pain._

_Pain._

_PainpainpainPAINPAINPAIN_ **_PAINPAINPAINPAINPAIN_ **

**“SHUT UP!”**

He’s not sure how he gets from one point to the other, from doubled over clawing at his throbbing skull to slamming Metatron against the nearest wall, angel blade pressed dangerously hard to his neck. It scares him, the satisfaction he gets from seeing the flash of terror in the scribe’s eyes. It vanishes too quickly, replaced by understanding and horrible, smug knowing. 

“You…you really don’t remember, do you?” he asks with a cruel smirk, having already found the answer himself. “They must’ve screwed you up worse than I thought.” 

Beyond the roaring in his ears, he can hear Sam calling to him, shouting the name that isn’t his. He only looks away for a second, but it’s enough time for Metatron to take advantage and throw him off. He lands hard on his back, his breath leaving him in a huff as his blade skids across the pavement out of reach. Sam’s there almost immediately, cradling his head, his expression frantic. “Zeke? Ezekiel, are you alright?”

He doesn’t know how to answer, he’s so far from alright that he can’t begin to describe it, but he doesn’t can the chance to anyway. “Ezekiel? Is that what you’re going by these days?” His laugh is patronizing but genuine, as if he thinks it’s the funniest thing in the world. “At least you had the sense to take a dead angel’s name. I wonder what he’d think if he knew who’d borrowed it.”

He curses his broken wings, damns them for not being able to take him away from here. Dean and Castiel have caught up by now, both armed and ready for a fight. Sam stays by his side, but his gun is drawn and aimed as well. “Stay the hell away from him!”

Metatron hardly seems phased by the threat, but concedes anyway. “Apparently your friends don’t understand the point of a private discussion,” he remarks with an exaggerated shrug. “I suppose we’ll just have to pick this up another time. Nice seeing you again…Gadreel.”

The scribe throws the name over his shoulder just as he departs, and he feels sick because it’s  _his_.

***

"You're kicking him out?! Are you out of your minds? The one angel on the planet who actually likes us, and you want to get rid of him!"

"Relax, kid, no one's getting rid of anybody. End of story."

“Dean, it's too dangerous. We all know Metatron isn't going to keep this a secret. It's only a matter of time before the other angels come after him, and his presence here puts all of us at risk."

"What, and yours doesn't? You've got just as many people after you, maybe more, but we didn't ditch you to save our own skins."

"That's not-... I-... This is different, Kevin, he has his Grace, he can fend for himself-"

"Against an army? You know he wouldn't stand a chance. Why don't you cut the crap and give us one good reason why-"

“You don’t get it! ...Every angel in Heaven knows his story. He’s betrayed those who trusted him before, why should we believe he wouldn’t do it again?”

“I can't believe I'm hearing this, especially from you! The guy saved your life, Cas. You trusted Ezekiel just fine, what makes Gadreel any different?"

"He destroyed the world!"

"So did we!"

The silence stretches on for a long time, and when the discussion resumes it's too hushed for him to make out the words. He's grateful for that; he's already heard as much as he can bear. It's nice of Dean and Kevin to rise to his defense, but he isn’t sure if he’s worthy of such loyalty. A part of him wonders if Castiel is right to doubt him, if they'd be safer with him gone.

He senses the presence at his door long before he hears the knock. "Ezekiel?" Sam's voice is as welcome a sound as ever, but for once it's all he can do not to shy away from it. "I know you probably don't want to talk, I get it, but...I wanted to make sure you're okay. You've been in there all day, you haven't said a word since- ...Can I come in? You don’t have to say anything, I just need to know you’re alright. Please?" He hesitates, curling into himself further. More than anything, he wants to be by his human’s side, but he knows he doesn’t deserve it. He deserves to be alone, locked away where he can’t do anymore damage. “...Gadreel?”

It’s a wonder, how such a dark, twisted name can almost sound noble in that voice. He unlocks the door with a thought, but Sam’s the one who pushes it open, pausing in the doorway before stepping inside and sitting down beside him on the bed. He doesn’t dare look up, fixing his gaze to a slightly discolored spot on the floor. It’s not long before the silence become oppressive, smothering. “I didn’t mean to break it,” he murmurs at last, not knowing what else to say in his defense. No words have the power to repair what he’s done. 

Sam inches closer and he can feel the heat from the hunter’s skin warm the space between them. “I know you didn’t.” There's so much sincerity and understanding in those words that it almost hurts. “Cas...he told us what happened in Eden back then. The official story, anyway.” He shrinks knowing that Sam’s learned the truth of his failure, that he knows what kind of monster he really is. How can someone so good stand to be anywhere near him? “...If it’s okay with you, I’d like to hear your side of the story.”

When he finally looks up, he doesn’t see any of the emotions he expects; there’s no blame, no anger, no distrust. Instead, all he sees is compassion and kindness, a desire to understand. It strikes him suddenly that this is something no one has ever asked of him. All those thousands of years, and not once had anyone given him the chance to explain himself. 

It takes some time before he’s able to find a good place to start. “It truly was a paradise,” he recalls aloud, his mind wandering to one of the few pleasant memories that have resurfaced. “Eden was the closest He ever came to recreating Heaven on Earth. Vast, unspoiled, an oasis where one could want for nothing. It was His divine gift to His most beloved children. And of all our brothers and sisters, I was given the privilege of keeping watch over it, of gazing upon its beauty every day and night. For years I kept my vigil faithfully, and not once did I ever tire of what I saw.”

The nostalgic, reverent smile on his lips drops slowly, burdened with the knowledge that such happiness couldn’t last. “I thought it was perfect, that nothing could possibly be added or changed to build upon its glory. But...Lucifer convinced me otherwise. Although mankind had everything they needed, he claimed they could be so much happier, so much  _more._ He said it was a tragedy that their potential should be left unfulfilled.” His stomach lurches at the memory of those brilliant wings and that saccharine voice, of the honeyed words that had led him astray. “He...he said if I truly loved humanity, the way He wanted us to, I would want them to be everything they could be. All I would have to do was...look away, just for a second. And he would take care of the rest.”

At some point his gaze had fallen back to that spot on the ground, his back hunched under the weight of that single, most costly mistake. He barely acknowledges the calloused hand gently lain over his own. “That wasn’t your fault. Lucifer knew you had every reason to trust him, and he took advantage of it. Anyone else would’ve done the same in your-”

“It doesn’t matter,” he grinds out through clenched teeth, rising to his feet in an effort to get away from the comforting touch. He doesn’t deserve such kindness, why does Sam insist on tempting him with it? “My assigned task, my one purpose was to protect Eden from harm, and instead I stood by and let it be destroyed. This world is filled with pain and sorrow and darkness and it’s  _my fault!”_

The confession seems to linger in the room like smoke, and he’s not sure how to feel now that it’s out in the world. Penitent? Relieved? Whatever emotion is meant to be filling him is glaringly absent; instead, he just feels hollow, empty.

Until a pair of warm, steady arms encircle him and hold him firmly, as if preventing him from shattering. “It’s okay,” Sam murmurs, and through layers of clothing he can still feel the hunter’s lips against his shoulder. “I know you blame yourself, I get it. But in case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly saints ourselves.” He opens his mouth to object, to explain that it isn’t the same, that their past failings pale in comparison to his own, but the words catch in his throat. “Dean and I...between the two of us, we basically started the Apocalypse. Cas' made his share of bad calls...I think he still blames himself for a lot of things that weren’t entirely on him.” 

Sam loosens his grip just enough to come around and face him, and he can’t resist looking up into those beautiful multi-hued eyes. “We’ve all screwed up, okay? We’ve all done things that we regret, things we can’t fix or run away from, but those things aren’t  _us_. What we did, the mistakes we made, that’s not who we are. And it’s not who you are either.” He knows he should pull away when Sam’s hand comes up to cradle his cheek, but Father forgive him, he doesn’t want to, doesn’t think he could if he tried. “No matter what happened back then, you’re still our friend.” There are tears in Sam’s eyes, his smile soft and watery. “You’re still my angel.”

It’s as if whatever force had been holding him back is suddenly severed, and the next thing he knows he has his arms wrapped around the brave, kind, wonderful man in front of him, clinging to him like he’ll disappear if he loosens his grip. He’s not sure when the tears started falling or when laughter started bubbling up from his chest, but he can’t be bothered to care. All that matters is the precious being in his arms and the overwhelming sense than, somehow, everything will be alright now. That he...

That  _Gadreel_  will be alright.


End file.
